Notes
Efendim: master


Chapter Two: Impression

Riding a horse was not at all like a camel. It was much faster, for one thing, and Tülay felt she would fly off at any moment. She clung to the reins and kept her face buried in the steed's mane, her breath hitching every time the rhythm of its gallop changed. Altaïr allowed himself a small shred of satisfaction at her discomfort; it was only fair after what she'd done to him. Having traveled the road from Antioch to Masyaf numerous times, he guided his mount without much effort, adjusting his hands and legs mechanically while contemplating how to present the girl to Al Mualim.

They arrived at sunset, passing through the gate to the stronghold and trotting to the stables. A young servant appeared with admiration evident in his eyes as he tended Altaïr's horse, but then he saw the other rider and his mouth opened in disbelief. Tülay was too in awe of the fortress to notice that everyone in their vicinity had stopped to stare at her.

Assassins gathered around them, surrounding Altaïr and his guest with whispers and critical gazes that he mirrored, daring them to say something. Only one person had the gall: Abbas Sofian, who barged through the crowd with two of his disciples in tow. "Well!" he shouted, ensuring everyone could hear him, "It seems your definition of an accomplished mission is far different than Al Mualim's, for when he sends you to procure a Templar artifact, the most favored Altaïr returns with a Seljuq harem bride!"

Altaïr owed them no explanations; he was the highest-ranking man among them. "Come," he said to Tülay. She followed dutifully despite the fact that her mind was racing. Who were these men, and what exactly was the cause they were devoted to? Most of them regarded her disapprovingly, yet some leered and snickered.

"It's about time Altaïr took a wife," she managed to catch. "He needs to raise a son before he gets too old."

"I wouldn't mind having a son with her," another said. Tülay turned red with anger and almost stopped to tell him that she wasn't here to become their plaything, but then she wondered if perhaps Altaïr had lied to her, if he wasn't going to teach her anything except what it felt like to become a slave to his desires…

That idea was banished when they reached Al Mualim's chamber. He sat at an ornately carved wooden desk situated before a large window, which illuminated numerous books on the shelves lining both sides of the room. Tülay was educated –her father had seen to that– and marveled at his literary collection, sighting titles in the numerous languages she knew as well as older tomes written in cuneiform and other pictographic alphabets, many of which seemed ready to disintegrate. Al Mualim himself was the epitome of a sage: he had white hair, and wrinkles were etched upon his face, but his dark eyes held vigor belying his age. He wore an outfit similar to Altaïr's but it was covered by a hooded black robe with silver embroidery.

The Mentor smiled at his prodigy. Altaïr had quickly risen to the rank of Master Assassin by continually proving his devotion to the Order, and he had a penchant for completing tasks with ruthless efficiency. The girl with him was young and pretty, a Turk judging by her attire, so there could only be one reason why they were here: Altaïr must have met her in Anatolia and wanted to make her his bride.

His lips parted in preparation to grant the request, but Altaïr battered him with a hasty explanation. "Master, I offer my apologies. The informant… Konya… it was a false trail. Konya has been occupied by Barbarossa's army, and they carry with them nothing of value. I will track down the man who lied to us and make him pay with his life."

"That won't be necessary," he kindly replied. "He has already been eliminated. I suspected his deception before your departure to the Sultanate."

Altaïr gaped in amazement. The Mentor knew Anatolia was a dead-end? He had journeyed all the way there and back for nothing? What a waste of precious time! "If you could please explain, Master…" He tried hard to maintain an even tone.

Al Mualim rotated the map he'd been consulting to reveal numerous cities marked with Xs. The ink crossing out Konya was fresh. "It is I who should apologize for sending you on a fool's errand. You've been traveling around the region for several months now without even knowing the true nature of the artifact I seek."

"What is it?" Altaïr asked, curiosity piqued.

"A sword," the Mentor answered. "At least, that is said to be its current incarnation. It is a weapon that can change shape at will, morphing to best serve its master. A weapon unable to be defeated in combat. If we obtained this sword, all the wrongs of the world could be righted. Its fearsome powers would make the Templars abandon their conquest of humankind, and our Order would have the ability to easily end this war."

"So you've had me get to the source of every rumor regarding this weapon in case it proves true…" the man finished. "I wish it had been in Konya so my brothers need not risk their lives looking for it."

Al Mualim sighed and shifted in his heavily-worn chair. "I wish for that as well, Altaïr, but all things become minute in the vastness of the world. Our eyes in Dimashq and Jerusalem remain vigilant– the search will continue." He looked up, smiling pleasantly. "I know you have traveled far, so please rest long and well. You have definitely earned it."

"Thank you, Master." Altaïr bowed his head before turning around. He almost bumped right into Tülay, who had stood in complete silence the entire time. "Ah, Master..." He stepped sideways to present her. "You must be wondering why I've brought this girl."

"Yes, I do wonder that."

He cleared his throat. "This is Tülay al-Mhámmed. She is an Anatolian but her father was born in Dimashq. I met her in Konya, and she followed me to Antioch. I believe she has certain skills that could benefit the Order."

Al Mualim's eyebrow rose to doubt his student's claim. "And what abilities would those be?"

"Her disguise was good enough that I thought her a young Persian man, and she charmed an entire crowd by dancing for them. She could distract targets for us and gain information using methods only a woman is capable of."

"Altaïr, need I remind you why we do not recruit women for the Order?" Al Mualim held up a hand to list the reasons, but once again the man interjected.

"I know they are weaker, both physically and emotionally—" Tülay bristled beside him yet remained silent. "—and we cannot afford to grant our enemies mercy, which women are more willing to offer. But she is different! Her father has raised her like a son."

Al Mualim came to stand before the girl. "Please remove your jacket." She did so and he made a slow circle around her, scrutinizing her build. Her back, shoulders and arms were defined with lean muscle, and there were scars on her hands that had obviously come from a blade. He asked Tülay to lift her arms and she did. He squeezed her biceps, making her flex, then did the same to her forearms. "Lift your skirt, please."

She hesitated but obeyed, raising the yellow fabric to her knees. Although her expression remained stoic Altaïr could tell there were a hundred questions going through her mind. He honestly hadn't known Al Mualim would appraise her like this and felt slightly guilty, but most recruits endured far worse. Tülay should consider herself lucky– it looked like she wouldn't have to begin on the bottom rung of the ladder.

The Mentor gripped her ankles and knees before facing Altaïr once again. "Tomorrow I want you to have Rauf assess her skill with a sword, and then I want both of your impartial opinions about her. We will discuss how to proceed then."

"Thank you, Master." Altaïr ducked his head, a move that Tülay copied, and exited the chamber, smiling at the image of Abbas' outraged expression when he learned the girl was to become one of them.


Tülay followed the hooded man up several flights of stairs and down a long, open corridor until he paused outside a wooden door. Producing a key from a pouch on his belt, Altaïr unlocked the entrance to his personal chamber. "I am staying with you?" she nervously inquired.

"Until you have been appointed your own room." He stepped inside and began clearing things off a second bed. No one had lain in it for many years and all he used it for was to support boxes of research notes and personal memos. It was probably extremely stiff and dusty, but not all mattresses could be made of fine fabric and feathers.

Tülay entered the room cautiously. She knew Altaïr would not take advantage of her, but what did she really know of him? He hunted Crusaders and obviously belonged to an entire sect of men who committed murder for a living… a faction she had requested to join. She stood in the corner while Altaïr removed baskets and crates from the decrepit second bed, and once that was done he sat at his desk, placing before him a sheet of vellum, a quill and an inkwell. "What are you writing?" Tülay asked, daring to sit on the very edge of the mattress.

"Nothing."

She smiled. "I can see that. What will you be writing?"

"I am going to record everything you accomplish here," Altaïr answered, and began jotting down the circumstances leading to their initial encounter. The next paragraph was about her family and personality. "How old are you?" he asked without glancing up.

"I turned seventeen a season ago."

"And no suitors?"

"None my parents have deemed worthy." Tülay removed her well-worn leather sandals and hung her jacket on a bed post, then began combing her hair with her fingers. The man noticed her staring at him and paused to meet her gaze. "Am I worthy of joining your Order?"

"We'll find out in the morning," Altaïr answered. "You will spar with Rauf, our weapon's master, to demonstrate what your father taught you."

"And what if I meet your expectations?"

"Then you will be given the rank of Novice and begin training. I believe that is why Al Mualim… inspected you. The life of an Assassin begins at a young age, five to be exact. Recruits are commoners we induct into the Order while Servants are children born into it– they are expected to devote their lives to upholding the Creed. After five years of indoctrination and physical training, they ascend to the rank of Initiate and are taught to wield a weapon of their choice." Tülay's eyes were wide with intrigue, so he continued.

"At age fifteen they become Novices and are given advanced physical training. When a Novice successfully performs a Leap of Faith, he become an Apprentice to an Adept and is taught the art of killing." Altaïr turned his arm over to show her the metal sheath attached to his bracer. "The Hidden Blade is the hallmark of our Order, and it is not an easy weapon to master. It is the Adept's task to ensure his disciples learn to wield it properly. He is also responsible for their lives in the field."

Tülay frowned slightly. "If you did not come to Konya with any disciples, are you not an Adept?"

"I am a Master Assassin," Altaïr said, speaking his title with some measure of pride. "I answer only to Al Mualim. I can choose to complete missions with a team, but I'd rather not have anyone holding me back."

The girl nodded slowly and finally trusted the integrity of the bed to lie down. 'In that case, I must prove that I will not be a hindrance… I have to show everyone that I am just as capable as a man. I am sure the trials ahead will be difficult, but I cannot fail my people. I will endure whatever the Brotherhood puts me through.'


Altaïr almost never dreamed, but this night gifted him with one. Two eagles soared high in the air together until one of them caught a thermal and drifted away. The other beat its wings to catch up, but the first just kept rising higher in the sky, eventually vanishing into a thick cloud bank. Altaïr then felt himself falling, but it wasn't enough to jar his body from slumber. He was back in Antioch at the edge of a crowd. Music filled his ears as he gently pushed people aside so he could reach the center of the gathering.

There she was, the girl comprised of elements. She moved like water yet burned with passion. A playful muslin breeze whisked through his fingers, ethereal fabric currents wrapping around her earthly body. But no matter how hard he tried, she escaped his grasp. She wasn't tangible.

Maybe he just wasn't exuding enough force. Men used their strength to conquer the world, and conquer her he would. He would feel that fire as hot kisses, her tongue a flickering flame on his skin. He would control her oceanic rhythm and chart a course to ecstasy guided by the whispering winds of her breath. And he would sow his seed in her valley, the untouched paradise where all life began.

Altaïr awoke suddenly and was greeted by the familiar sight of his ceiling. He ripped the blanket off his sweating form and placed his feet on the cold stone floor. The shock helped clear his head, banishing any lingering images, and he glanced over to where Tülay had slept.

The young woman was not there.

At least she had made up the bed before wandering off. Altaïr lauded her manners while getting dressed. Once outside he went to the open wall of the corridor to inspect the grounds below. Lo and behold, the girl's bright yellow skirt stood out like a rose in the desert. Descending the staircase brought him to the balcony overlooking the training area, where Tülay stood with a cumbersome Moorish scimitar in hand while Rauf posed her, moving her arms up, bending her elbows, and grabbing her ankles to correct her stance. This was the fifth time in less than a week she had been touched by strange men.

"Rauf!" the Master Assassin barked as he came down the steps, stopping outside the arena's wooden barrier.

The bulkier man glanced his way. "Ah, Altaïr! I was just explaining to your new student about the importance of proper weight distribution."

"That's not what it looked like to me," he chastised. "I hope your hands have not wandered beneath her clothes."

"O-o-of course not!" Rauf blushed and released a string of apologies as Tülay bit her lip to suppress a laugh. He was the kindest person she had met so far!

"That sword is too large for her," Altaïr declared. "Fetch a smaller blade and something for yourself." Rauf scurried into an alcove of dull weaponry, returning with a Baladi scimitar in one hand and a broadsword and buckler in the other.

Tülay shakily accepted the new blade; she hadn't been nervous until Altaïr showed up. This was it, the test to see if she could survive the Order. There was a lot riding on this performance, which was what it would probably look like to anyone passing by. Her mother taught her a dance featuring a sword– it involved balancing it on her head, a now-useless skill, but surely she could transform those moves into an efficient fighting style.

Rauf raised his armaments while encroaching upon her. Tülay met his first strikes easily– they were slow and predictable, and she hardly had to change her stance to counter them. "Pick up the pace," Altaïr commanded. After an uneasy glance the weapon master's grip on his sword tightened, becoming a serious extension of his arm, and he began pressuring her. She was still blocking or deflecting his swings, but now she had to move around to avoid being smacked by the wooden buckler.

Rauf's title was well-deserved. He was unique among his brethren for being proficient with every weapon in the region. He was just as deadly with a spear as he was a sword, and his aim always struck true whether he was hurling throwing knifes or firing an arrow or crossbow bolt. His favorite weapon, though, was a heavy double axe, which he had used to cleave many an enemy's skull. So it came as a bit of a surprise that the girl actually tested his skill, and he abandoned the notion of going easy on her.

She never stopped moving, shifting her weight to attack and defend as effortlessly as walking. Tülay held her scimitar in a backwards grip –the way Rauf taught his students to wield the fighting knife or short blade– and had a tendency to spin into her attacks so she was constantly circling him. She used her flexibility to her advantage, snaking away from the tip of his broadsword only to deliver a quick counter slash he had to parry. Rauf shifted the focus of his shield to her lower body in an attempt to trip her up but she nimbly evaded every sweep, skipping back out of range and lunging forward just as gracefully. Momentum was her ally, and Rauf found it difficult to tell which direction the scimitar was going to come from.

"That's enough," Altaïr eventually said. Tülay flashed him a smile, perhaps seeking praise, but he didn't give it. He rounded on the many lower-ranking members who had paused their chores to watch the girl's exhibition. "Return to your duties!" he bellowed.

The boys scattered like frightened bugs. Tülay relinquished her weapon to Rauf, who wiped the sweat from his brow before flashing Altaïr a grin. "I'm quite impressed with your student," he said, vanishing into the storage room.

Tülay stopped smiling in an attempt to appear humble, but pride provided a spring to her step and practically made her bounce up to Altaïr. "What now?" she asked, eager for another exercise.

"Now we give Al Mualim our evaluation. Come." She followed the two men into the stronghold, actually taking the time to memorize its layout. The Mentor's chamber was on the third floor and Altaïr made her wait outside, closing the door to mute their conversation. She strained to hear it but the wood was too thick, so she leaned against the stone wall with a sigh, letting the exhilaration of fighting fade away. It wouldn't be too long before she experienced an adrenaline rush from besting someone who really wanted to hurt her. 'Can I truly learn to kill without feeling remorse?' she mused. 'Can I end someone's life as easily as Altaïr erased those Byzantine soldiers from the world?'

She started a little when the door opened to deposit her trainers. "I look forward to instructing you!" Rauf declared, his bright expression proving his honesty.

Altaïr remained as straight-faced as usual. "You are an official Novice of the Order. Now we must outfit you."

"Very well. Where is the armory? Did Rauf mention which weapon he believes would be best for me?"

The man blinked a few times, then scoffed lightly and shook his head. "I meant we need to change your attire, Tülay. You cannot adequately train in a skirt." He waited while she glanced down at herself and frowned. "I presume you can sew. There are seamstresses who can help you craft an outfit to mimic ours, though it should not impede your… natural abilities."

Tülay put a thoughtful finger to her lips, picturing an amalgamation of her daily attire, a dance costume, and Altaïr's garb. The color scheme would be easy enough to match, and she had permission to be liberal with the design. "I believe I must go to the market," she stated.

Altaïr only had to look around for the briefest of moments before spying an apprentice scholar, the son of a higher-ranking member. "You!" he called, causing the boy to jump as he turned toward the loud voice. "What is your name?"

"I-I am Telash," he answered. Although he addressed the man, his eyes were fixated on the figure at his side. "What do you need, Master Altaïr?"

"I want you to take this girl to the market. Do not let her out of your sight. Do not let any lechers near her." He paused. "In fact, it would be best if you did most of the talking. Do you understand?"

"Yes!" he squeaked. With that Altaïr left the youths to their mission. Telash looked the girl up and down a few more times before realizing she eyed him warily. "S-so… are you a Novice?"

"As of a few minutes ago, yes." Her narrow gaze dared him to make a comment, but Telash was too nervous about being in the presence of an attractive female. He didn't get many opportunities to meet them since he spent most of his time studying in the library. After he stopped fidgeting he inclined his head toward the exit, and Tülay followed him out into the sunshine. Neither spoke until they were heading downhill toward the village.

"So, who are you? I mean, I know who you are– everyone's been talking about you. But what's your name? Where did you come from?"

"My name is Tülay al-Mhámmed. I am from Antalya."

"Really? I've only seen maps of the north. What's it like?"

She waved flippantly. "Much more bearable than these lands. But when I left Konya, my home, it was occupied by invaders from beyond the mountains. I know your kind calls them Templars, and I came here to gain the strength to drive them out."

"Well, not every Crusader is a Templar," Telash said. "Their Order is as old as ours yet much more exclusive. Their ranks are comprised of influential men from many nations, even those who appear to be at war with one another."

Tülay mulled that over, then said, "But Templars are the ones who declared that Jerusalem belongs to the kings of Europe."

"The Roman Catholic Pope said that," the boy replied, "which is foolish, because there is actually very little evidence that proves Jesus was crucified there. I've been studying the Christian bible in an effort to understand what drives these men to believe they can claim an entire city in the name of their martyr when he strove for peace among all men regardless of faith."

Theology was not Tülay's forte so she contributed nothing to the conversation, tuning the boy out to make a mental list of materials. Cotton, chiffon and silk would all suffice, but she might have trouble finding high-quality samples. Masyaf was not as populous a city as Antioch or even Sis in the foothills of the Taurus Mountains, a stop for Silk Road merchants making their way to Konya. Some new sandals would be nice, perhaps leather with a suede insole…

She stopped and released a gasp. "I did not bring any money! I do not even know what coin you use!"

Telash chuckled. "Oh, don't worry about it. As protectors of the city, provisions are free for us. None of the vendors would charge someone like you, anyway."

She fixated the boy with a glare. "What do you mean 'someone like me'?"

His face instantly warmed, and it wasn't due to the sun looming overhead. "I-I-I just mean… well… Honestly! Don't you own a mirror? You have to know that you're beautiful!"

Silence greeted his outburst. The clamor of commerce was just ahead, and Tülay held out her arm to stop him before they reached it. "I do not expect to survive in the world because of my appearance. I have earned everything I have by working for it, and now I hope to earn my place here– not by being beautiful or treated like a delicate flower, but by performing the tasks my rank requires. I do not desire special treatment of any kind." Her lips turned up in a slight smile. "Tell that to the men talking about me."

"I…" Telash began to apologize, but stopped and gave her a nod. "Very well. Now, what kind of fabrics are you looking for?"


Altaïr had his own daily tasks to complete, but that did not mean he neglected to keep an eye on his disciple. He saw Tülay and Telash return from the village with a few bolts of fabric, then they both disappeared into the cool tailoring basement. The Assassins hired seamstresses and cobblers to manage their attire, and every man was individually fitted each time he outgrew the clothes denoting his rank.

By sunset the Master Assassin was pacing near the entrance to the basement. Workers trickled out a few at a time, giving him questioning looks as they returned to their homes in the village. A black-robed figure appeared and Altaïr nearly pounced on the young scholar, startling him. "Where is Tülay? What's taking her so long?"

Telash's surprise was replaced by smugness. He had seen the outfit come together, and Tülay was an excellent model. "She's adding a few finishing touches, shouldn't be long now." Altaïr glowered as the boy released a yawn and made his way to the barracks; he'd had a long, exciting day.

Altaïr grunted his annoyance, folded his arms and leaned against the wall. Finally, after the last two gossiping old women had passed him, he heard soft footsteps ascending the stairs. They hesitated at the threshold, then a vision of loveliness emerged from the shadows. Altaïr cleared his throat and the girl turned toward him. "I hope you find this acceptable," she said, gaze falling to the ground.

He couldn't help it– the first thing Altaïr inspected were her breasts framed by a black brocade vest with silver trim. Her shirt was an intriguing semi-sheer (though not in the area that mattered) chiffon piece with dagged elbow-length sleeves; it was cropped to reveal her abdomen, which he should have expected. She wore pants but the outseams were unstitched from her knees to the tops of her thighs. A fringed red scarf sat around her hips and atop her head was a Turkish pillbox hat with a veil, though it hardly succeeded in covering her hair.

"All that's missing is your weapons," Altaïr remarked after finding his voice. "I think you should keep using the Baladi scimitar. It seems natural in your hand."

Tülay nodded in silent agreement. "What now?" she asked softly. They were the only ones outside the stronghold, the grounds bathed in the eerie light of a crescent moon.

"Now I show you to your room." She raised an eyebrow, so he revealed the key Al Mualim had given him after granting her a place in the Order. This was yet another way she broke tradition: Novices didn't get their own quarters, they had to stay in the barracks. But Altaïr didn't trust a single one of them enough to leave Tülay alone with them, and the Mentor must have thought the same because he surrendered a key without any explanation whatsoever. Her room was on the level above his, the penultimate story of the spire, but they both paused at the mouth of the corridor leading to Altaïr's abode.

"Thank you, Efendim," Tülay said. "I know it is not much, but I feel as if wearing this outfit means I have made progress toward my goal."

"There is still much for you to learn, if you so choose," Altaïr replied. "Your real training begins tomorrow. Heed me when I say it will be difficult, and don't assume I'll go easy on you because of your gender."

The girl shook her head and smiled. "I expect to be adequately challenged, then. Sparring with Rauf was child's play."

He smirked at her arrogance, knowing it masked her anxiety. "In that case, I expect you not to run home after a week. No whining, no tears."

"You shall receive neither." Tülay haughtily turned her nose in the air, earning a low chuckle from the man. "Good night, Efendim."

She vanished up the staircase as silently as a ghost. Altaïr's smile faded, and he stood there a few minutes more, waiting for something that wasn't going to happen. He shook his head, went to his door, fumbled with the key because his fingers were suddenly so clumsy. Once inside he stared at a moonbeam illuminating his room. The cold, pale light made him shiver. Before he could stop himself he was standing beside the bed Tülay slept in, leaning over the pillow that had absorbed her scent.

It was thrillingly feminine. She smelled of sugary dates, rich almonds, delicate rose water and a hint of vanilla. Altaïr straightened and scoffed at himself. What was he doing, dragging Tülay into his world? She was just an ordinary girl, not an Assassin in the making. 'She chose to follow me… She wanted to learn my way of life.' A pathetic reason by all accounts. He could have taken her home with a meager amount of force.

Altaïr lay awake in the bed that for once felt so uncomfortable he almost moved to the floor, but he knew that was foolish and his muscles would protest in the morning. He looked across the room, wondering if he'd be able to fall asleep in that sweet scent. He stopped himself from rising and turned toward the wall with a grunt of resolve, closing his eyes to the intruding moonlight.